


Cold n hot

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, First Time, H.I.A.T.U.S. challenge, Japan, Love Hotels, M/M, Rutting, Smut, Top John, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: John and Sherlock are in Japan, they have just handed over a money forger to the local police, and are forced to spend the night in one of the most characteristic hotels of the Country.A love hotel.





	Cold n hot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [H.I.A.T.U.S.](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/post/159876365198/hello-were-very-excited-to-announce-the-next) May Johnlock Challenge. Theme is bedsharing and I used this prompt:  
> Sherlock and John need to lay low after a case and end up staying with Sherlock’s parents/hotel/safe house which only has one bed… or one single bed (so they have to get squishy to both fit!)

John stubbornly refused to look at the dashboard of the car, because he hoped that not seeing the real temperature would make the cockpit less cold. He leaned a hand over the air vent and cursed under his breath. Even if the heating was on, the air that came out could barely called lukewarm. Damn, maybe it was broken.

He turned to the dashboard to check that everything was in order and his eyes fell on the thermometer: 20 degrees below zero.

He cursed harder and tightened the coat around himself.

Outside, beyond the windscreen, the asphalt ribbon unrolled straight and monotonously in front of them, without turns or bumps; it wasn’t snowing at that moment (up there Someone should have pity on them), but the meadows at the sides of the road were covered by at least two meters of snow. They didn’t meet other cars in the last two hours (or deers, or cranes, or any other damned form of life) and there weren’t any lights of a village on the horizon.

John couldn’t believe that a Nation might be composed of so much... well, nothing.

The radio was broadcasting some folk music that was likely to make him fall asleep.

_ "No thanks," _ he thought with a grimace,  _ "the best stories of frostbite begin with a sleepy man." _

He turned the knob, stumbling into a long sequence of static noise, a channel where someone was talking uninterruptedly (in Japanese, of course), classical music and other folk music. Fuck, wasn’t Japan famous for Jpop? Okay, it wasn’t exactly his cup of tea, but at least it was was cheerful and lively.

"Jpop is famous in the big metropolis, here in Hokkaido the most popular music is still the enka," Sherlock pointed out, without looking away from the road.

By now, John was accustomed to his ability to read minds and wasn’t bothered by it anymore. Finally he found a decent radio station and relaxed again on the seat: he had never been so cold in his life.

Instead, Sherlock didn’t seem to be affected in any way by that ungodly temperature: he wore the same coat and cashmere scarf he used to wear in London (the posh git), and was driving steadily for hours, careful and concentrated to spot any sudden black ice on the road, and didn’t give signs of being tired; it was odd that Sherlock hadn’t yet complained about being bored (damn, John was bored to death) but probably he was busy reviewing in his Mind Palace the details of the case they just solved.

John leaned back on the seat and let his gaze travel on him. Somehow, that snowy and cold landscape was similar to Sherlock, with his pale skin, light blue eyes and the grave profile; besides, the bitterness of his temperament reminded John about the ice, while the plumpness of his lips and the gentle curve of his nose was similar to the softness of the snow. With a cape and a crown Sherlock would have been like a prince from fairy tales, who was returning to his lonely snow-capped castle, like a male Elsa, far and untouchable.

John straightened on his seat and frowned: he hadn’t just compared his flatmate-slash-best friend to a sort of Prince Charming, didn’t he?

Christ, his brain had to be frozen already.

It wasn’t the first time he admitted (to himself, of course) that Sherlock was beautiful, but that was a bit too much.

"Any problem, John?" Sherlock asked softly, and John prayed for his dignity that he hadn’t read those last thoughts in his mind.

The doctor grunted, annoyed. "Explain me again why we are in this desolate land, freezing our bollocks."

"Interesting choice of words: given their position, the testicles are one of the last parts of the human body to be subject to frostbite, in fact, they usually hang low because sperm is very sensitive to heat and-"

"The metaphor wanted to highlight my irritation for our current situation: we’re surrounded by nothingness, and outside there is a temperature that’s more suitable for Saturn than for planet Earth!" exclaimed John, who didn’t want to talk about bollocks, his or Sherlock’s (just compared to a Prince Charming)... bollocks!

"Hyperbole."

"Eh?"

"What you used is a hyperbole, not a metaphor."

"Keep acting like a smartass and I’ll throw you out of the car."

"To answer your rhetorical question, we just handed over to the Japanese police one of Asia's finest money forger."

"Obviously this genius of crime had to have his den in this block of ice and not in the Caribbean Sea," he grumbled. "But why didn’t you accept the police chief's invitation to stop at his place for the night?"

"He wanted to call the press and be photographed with me, he had already called his brother who is a well-known reporter here. You know I hate interviews and I prefer to keep a low profile for the sake of the Work."

"Sure, it’s better to be here than in a warm and welcoming police station" John blurted, widening an arm to indicate snowy fir trees.

"You could have stayed in London."

“Hell no! If it was for you, you would have chased this forger by foot, ending up to freeze your buttocks out there!"

"Why so many references to private parts in your examples?"

John grunted something absolutely unrepeatable, and for once, he was the one who sulked, while Sherlock chuckled.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you for coming," Sherlock said, suddenly serious: he knew John would follow him everywhere, because he was concerned about his safety.

"Oh c’mon, don’t even say that," John said with a snort, but he couldn’t hide a smile. Over the years Sherlock had become more considerate, and he didn’t take John's presence for granted anymore.

After that, they sat in a companionable silence, and Sherlock drove steadily for a few kilometers, but then a start under his seat made him frown; he cast a worried look to the dashboard and accelerated, but the car didn’t react as it should have been.

"Hey, problems?"

"I'm afraid that not even the antifreeze is enough against this cold."

John straightened up on the seat. "Sherlock, it's a serious thing: if the car stops now, we'll freeze to death before the tow truck arrives, and this is not an exaggeration."

"I know."

"How far is the next town?"

"We're an hour from Furano."

"Shit! Isn’t there something closer?"

Sherlock made a search on his phone: usually John would have scolded him, because he didn’t want to hit a pedestrian, but there the only thing they could hit were snowballs.

There was an alternative, a motel just minutes away, but Sherlock wasn’t sure John would have liked it.

"There is a motel, but..."

"But what? Of course we stop here!"

"As you wish."

The car slowed more and more, until it stopped completely, fortunately not far from this motel. John watched it from the window: the building was dull and scarcely illuminated, so much so that it looked like a private home, and John wondered who the hell had the insane idea of building it in the middle of nowhere.

He picked up the suitcases from the trunk, shivering because of the biting cold, ran to the front door, making sure Sherlock followed him closely, and once in the lobby he was welcomed by a pleasant warmth, but his relief didn’t last.

Still numb for the cold, his brain took a moment to focus on the details around him, and when he did, he hoped it was just a nightmare induced by his semi-frozen brain.

The hall was a hallucinating triumph of black, red and pink: red were the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, pink was the fake fur carpet covering the floor, pink was the chairs upholstery, black were the heart-shaped tables, on which there were some red lollipops, obviously heart-shaped too. There was a strong spicy scent in the air, and the staff member working at reception was hidden behind a pane of frosted glass. In a corner, there were some vending machines with the widest (and wildest) assortment of condoms, lubricants, massage oils and sex toys on which John had ever laid eyes.

"Sherlock..." John wheezed.

"Yes John, it's a love hotel," Sherlock said, unperturbed, heading for the reception.

"But…"

"It’s this, or the 20 degrees below zero of the parking lot."

John put a hand on his face, but he didn’t say anything, having even run out of curses. At least now he understood why that motel was in such a isolated place: discretion.

The person behind the frosted glass knew a few words of English, and Sherlock had a pocket dictionary with him, so he could pay the room without too much trouble.

"Can you ask if we can have two separate rooms?" John asked.

Sherlock stiffened and bit his lips, then decided to gamble: he browsed through the small dictionary and asked in Japanese at the receptionist: "What time do we have to leave the room, tomorrow morning?"

He wanted to spend more time with John, even just talking or teasing him with some joke, like before in the car; they had never been separated during those ten days of traveling, but a part of him seemed to never have enough of John's presence. It seemed as if he couldn’t do without it anymore.

"By eleven," the voice beyond the glass answered.

"No John, he says there's only one room available."

"Obviously," he mumbled, taking the suitcases, and followed Sherlock down the corridor.

"Heart Suite" said the nameplate on the door, but the interior of the room looked rather like the place where a mass slaughter had been consumed. The predominant leitmotiv was still red, in fact everything was red: the walls, the curtains, the carpet, the closet and the bed. Bed that was heart-shaped (but of course!) and would have forced both of them to sleep in the middle, to keep their legs from hanging out of the duvet.

"I didn’t see so much red velvet since the last episode of Twin Peaks, and what the hell is this?" the former soldier shouted.

Next to the bed, almost under the window, there was a large jacuzzi, and guess what? It was heart-shaped, too.

The room looked like the haven of a serial killer with a strong romantic flair.

"I can understand everything, but a jacuzzi in the bedroom isn’t too much?"

"It's a love hotel, John: people come here to have sex, lack of modesty is the norm," Sherlock said, hanging his coat in the closet and getting rid of his shoes.

"And what if I need the loo?"

"Try that door."

Next to the closet there was a door leading to a small cubicle (another nightmare, this time in pink and black) with a toilet and a washbasin.

"Can I?" John asked

"Go ahead."

John took off his toiletry bag from the suitcase, closed himself in the loo for his evening ritual, and came out twenty minutes later shaved and ready to go to sleep. And if he had thought that sleeping in a red heart-shaped bed with Sherlock would have been the most embarrassing thing of the day, he had to correct himself instantly, because Sherlock had decided to take advantage of the jacuzzi and was plunged in the water with his eyes closed, the toes resting on the edge of the tub and a wet towel rolled around his neck.

John gaped at him a few seconds before stammering "Are you crazy?" in a loud, high-pitched voice.

"No, I'm having a bath," Sherlock answered with a soft voice, already numb with sleep.

"In an open space!" John pointed out.

"Yes," Sherlock said, unmovingly, "and I'm not going to get out soon."

John was about to shout, then he saw Sherlock bringing his left hand to the side of his neck as his face twisting in a pained grimace: he had driven for hours on an icy road, probably all the muscles of his body were tensed, and that bath was helping him relax; it was selfish to complain just because he felt... awkward. 

No, perhaps it wasn’t the right word, he thought, looking at the wiry, toned body stretched out in the water (appropriately concealed by the jacuzzi bubbles).

Attractive was a more suitable term.

Sherlock massaged his aching shoulder again, and John moved to the bed, on which there was a wicker welcome basket containing a small selection of condoms and lubricants, and picked up a bottle of massage oil.

Probably it wasn’t a wise idea, but, hey, in the end he was the man who had invaded Afghanistan: doing ridiculous things was part of his curriculum vitae.

"Keep your eyes closed," John warned as he undressed.

Sherlock obeyed with a smirk and, realizing John's intentions, moved to the edge of the tub to make room for him. 

John put his foot in the water and hissed in pain.

"Are you trying to boil yourself alive?"

"In a couple of minutes you'll thank me."

John plunged in the scolding water, stretching his legs and letting it take away all the cold he had suffered, and finally he sighed with delight.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?"

"Heavenly," John admitted, "but the room is still terrible."

"Atrocious," Sherlock agreed with a chuckle.

John warmed himself for a few minutes, then pulled out the towel from Sherlock's shoulders, opened the bottle of oil and poured some on his palm.

"Come on, turn around."

Sherlock obeyed, saying nothing, and John put his hands on the muscles strained by tension, working slowly to ease each knot.

"You could have turn over the driving to me.”

"I know you hate driving."

"No matter, I'm your... I'm..." he frowned and shook his head quickly, “Well, we're traveling together, so tomorrow morning I’ll drive."

"All right."

John was about to call himself "colleague", but that term didn’t fit to their relationship anymore, to the point he could no longer pronounce it. And, to tell the truth, “colleagues” never defined what they were, not even at the beginning.

John found a particularly strained muscle and focused on that, and for a few minutes he could tell to himself that he was only offering medical help to a friend with a problem, but when he managed to ease the knot, Sherlock let out such a deep moan of satisfaction it was obscene, moan that came into John's ears, but instead of going to the brain, traveled directly to his groin.

Well, he had said that it wasn’t a wise idea.

John quickly removed his hands from Sherlock's shoulders as if he had been burned, and crossed his legs under the water, hoping not to be discovered.

"Better?"

Sherlock rolled his head on his neck and moaned again. Christ, did he do it on purpose?

"Much better. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Without any warning, Sherlock stood up and got out of the water, proving once again that he didn’t possess the slightest sense of shame; John turned diligently his eyes away, but he forgot about the mirror on the closet door, which offered him a clear and perfect vision of Sherlock’s delectable bottom, and that didn’t do much to calm his sudden erection. John slided completely underwater and held his breath long enough to regain control of body and thoughts, and only at that point he emerged again, wiping his face with one hand.

Sherlock was wearing the hotel bathrobe, rubbing his hair with a towel and yawning every minute: the hot water had made him almost lethargic. John followed him shortly thereafter, but when he wrapped himself in the bathrobe he was hit by the same spicy scent he smelt in the hall.

"What is it?" He asked, curling his lips in disgust.

"Rose, cloves and cherry, an exclusive scent of this hotel."

"They can keep it, thank you very much."

Sherlock chuckled again as John reached the bed and unwrapped the welcome chocolate on the pillow, chewing it gently.

"Their sweets are delicious, though."

Sherlock stretched out on the bed and took his chocolate, handing it to John.

"You can have mine, too, if you want," he murmured, staring at him with his bright eyes.

John looked down at the heart-shaped sweet resting on Sherlock's palm, and for a moment was absurdly moved by his gesture, as if it were actually a metaphor for something else.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's yours."

John nodded silently and took it.

Sherlock moved the basket on the bedside table and slipped under the covers, making as much space as possible for John, but he couldn’t move too far from the middle of the bed because of its shape.

"Romance and practicality aren’t concepts that go hand in hand," John proclaimed, following him under the duvet.

"Goodnight John."

"Nighty-night."

Sherlock had the disturbing ability to fall asleep at will, especially after a case, but John needed more time to become sleepy, despite being relaxed after the hot bath, so he sat up for a while checking his blog from the phone and answering a few comments. From that position he could see Sherlock, who was lying on his side: his pale face contrasted with the black of his hair and the bright red of the sheets, while his long eyelashes cast a shadow over the protruding cheekbones.

He didn’t look like a Prince Charming anymore, right now he was more similar to Snow White, waiting to be awakened by a kiss.

_ "Okay, that's enough, Watson," _ he chided himself. He switched off the light and fell asleep, with the taste of Sherlock’s chocolate still in his mouth.

 

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night with the sensation of having something hard pressed against his back. Only that it wasn’t just a sensation, it was John's penis, rubbed rhythmically on his terrycloth bathrobe, just at the base of his back.

He swallowed hard and whispered "John?", but the other man didn’t answer.

John's breath was heavy and regular, wasn’t awake, he wasn’t doing it consciously, was having an erotic dream, and Sherlock knew he should have to move away, maybe get up and pretend to go to the loo, because surely John was dreaming about a nurse at the clinic or a former girlfriend, not about him, and it wasn’t right to take advantage of it.

John rubbed his pelvis on him again, and Sherlock thought he might just wait another minute. Or two. Then John muttered something indistinguishable, but that seemed like his name.

Sherlock held his breath.

_ "It can’t be true, right?" _

Almost in response to his mute question, John murmured "Sherlock" again, with a sleepy but terribly clear voice in the silence of the night. It really seemed that John was dreaming about him. Before, when Sherlock had lied and didn’t asked if there were two separate rooms available, he hadn’t dared to hope so much.

Behind him, the doctor moaned and threw a leg between Sherlock’s one, and he instinctively opened them, allowing John's knee to slide on his testicles, and Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheeks not to emit any sound that would have surely awaken John. The knot of the belt of his bathrobe had loosened and the garment had slipped away from his shoulders, leaving him half naked. In his sleep, John seemed to like the contact with his skin because he inhaled deeply and moved his lips into the semblance of a kiss near Sherlock’s left shoulder blade, and then licked his skin. John's bathrobe had also dropped open and now Sherlock was feeling more of John's penis against his buttocks. There was only a thin layer of red terrycloth to divide them, and the idea made him shiver with pleasure; his breath became heavy, but he remained motionless, even though he was definitely very excited, at least as much as John.

John's hand slipped forward and stroked his chest in awkward and uncoordinated movements, but when the nail of his finger suddenly scratched a nipple, Sherlock couldn’t hold back a cry of surprise.

Suspended in that limbo between deep sleep and drowsiness, John was having an erotic dream about Sherlock.

It wasn’t the first time that it happened, but as long as it was only a dream it was all right, didn’t it? At least in his dreams he hadn’t to face a reality where Sherlock wasn’t interested in sex.

And that was a wonderful dream, one of the best: he could almost smell Sherlock, and feel the heat of his body, the taste of his skin on his lips, the silk of his flesh under his fingers, a smooth and slightly sweaty sea of skin just for him.

"Mmh, S’lock..."

Sherlock was lying on the bed on his stomach, John was over him and he was fucking him for hours or more, perhaps they were suspended in a fragment of timeless eternity, and he was moving slowly, almost lazily, enjoying every thrust, every wave of pleasure that washed over him, approaching unhurriedly to the orgasm, stopping occasionally to kiss and suck his skin.

"Sherlock..." His name had a good sound on his tongue: aristocratic, posh, almost exotic.

A wave of pleasure stronger than the others made his hand twitch, and Sherlock's cry made him wake suddenly, like if a bucket of cold water had been thrown in his face. In a fraction of a second John's five senses realized everything: it wasn’t a dream, he was spread against Sherlock's back for real, one leg between his, and one hand scratching his chest, while he was rutting against him like an animal in heat.

Burning with shame, he leaped from the bed without even switching on the light, fell into the jacuzzi like a fine dumbass, and closed himself in the loo, even before Sherlock could open his mouth or turn on the light.

John leaned his hands on the sink and his erect cock slammed over the cold ceramic, causing him to hiss with pain; his cock seemed completely indifferent to his drama and was definitely annoyed to have been interrupted at the best moment.

"Calm down," John threatened, "Calm down or I put you under cold water."

The door behind him opened and Sherlock looked at his reflection in the mirror.

"I'm going to pretend I haven’t heard you talking with a part of your body: it's stupid and definitely not sexy."

John's panicked reaction was predictable, but Sherlock didn’t expect such a sprint from him, and had hoped he could talk with him in bed; instead he had to raise, challenging the cold of the room, go to the loo, and see him fighting with his penis.

John clutched so much his bathrobe around himself he looked like a salami, and turned to Sherlock, who instead didn’t care to tie his garment and was still half-naked. John's red nail scratching on his white skin was evident, and the former soldier closed his eyes.

What the hell should he have to do right now? Act as if nothing has happened? No, it was inconceivable. Apologize? He didn’t know where to start. Maybe with Sherlock a scientific approach about involuntary nocturnal nocturnal penile tumescence would work better, or...

Sherlock’s calm and almost bored voice interrupted his elucubrations: "Can we get back to bed, John? It's three o'clock a.m., the heating is off and I’m starting to get cold. I would also prefer not to stay too long in a pink and black bathroom: there is something disturbing in this color matching."

"Is this your only concern?" John asked with a voice so high that it was borderline with hysteria.

Sherlock tilted his head as if he didn’t understand. "Should I have any worries?"

"Of course!"

"And what?"

"Oh, I don’t know! Perhaps the fact that I was harassing you in your sleep?"

"You weren’t doing that."

"Of course I was, don’t look for excuses for me," cried John, throwing his arms in the air, but Sherlock grabbed his wrists firmly.

"A harassment would presuppose the lack of consent on my part, so no, you weren’t harassing me."

Sherlock saw the comprehension literally enlighten John's face, while his mouth gaped in surprise.

"Oh."

"Oh, in fact."

"But you never have..."

"I lied to you, before."

"About what?" John asked, confused.

"I didn’t ask at the reception if they had two separate rooms. Also mph-"

Whatever Sherlock was about to say, went lost in John's mouth, pressed on his in a first kiss, uncoordinated but full of desire.

It was true: they were in the middle of the night and it was cold: explanations and conversations could wait until sunrise; Sherlock had just confessed he maneuvered to sleep with him, John had an erotic dream about him, and maybe there wasn’t much to say, except that they were two idiots who had to learn to be more sincere to each other.

John's hands freed Sherlock from the bathrobe and gently pushed him back to the bed, never removing his mouth from his. Sherlock's lips were so full and soft that John didn’t see any reason to break away from them, now or never.

Sherlock also managed to undress John, and they dived naked under the duvet, skin on skin for the first time. John pulled the sheets over their heads, hiding them under a ruby curtain. John had thought that all that red was kitsch and fulsome, but now, with Sherlock underneath him, with his dishevelled hair, his glassy eyes, and covered with that strong spicy scent, he thought it was incredibly luscious.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked.

"I’m thanking our good luck for the snow, the ungodly cold, the broken car, and this unexpected stop."

John slid two fingers along his cheek and stroked his lips; Sherlock opened his mouth, sucking them, never diverting his eyes from his. Slowly, John pulled his fingers out and slid them over Sherlock’s chin, pushing his head back to reveal his white throat, which he marked  with his teeth.

Sherlock trembled under him, clinging to his shoulders, as John slid down to kiss his chest.

"I want to fuck you," John confessed in a whisper, "I want to take you. Can I have you?"

"Like in your dream?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."

"Now?" John complained as he reached the navel and the inviting trail of dark hair that ran to his groin.

Sherlock carded a hand through John's hair. "Please."

John climbed along his body with a sigh, and his cock left a long trail of precome on his skin; Sherlock watched it, stunned, and John kissed him again on his lips.

"You were lying on your stomach,” a kiss on the cheek, “I was over you” a kiss between his eyes “and I was fucking you," he concluded with a whisper.

Sherlock rolled on his stomach and looked over his shoulder; John licked his lips and grabbed Sherlock’s buttocks without shame: they were plump and firm, and he almost came now and there at the thought that soon he would sink his cock right there. He closed his eyes and took a breath to calm down.

"Do you want it like that, John?"

John looked at Sherlock’s face, reddened and sweaty, beautiful, so beautiful, and shook his head.

"Maybe another time, now I want to see you."

Sherlock turned again and moaned his approval on his neck; John kissed his hair, then came out from under the sheets and stretched an arm on the bedside table to take the lube.

"Condoms?"

"We're both clean, and then..." Sherlock put his mouth near John's ear as if to confess a secret in a low, sinful voice, “I saw the size of the condoms: they would be small for you."

Sherlock's right hand slid along his cock in a sensual caress, and John's ego swelled enormously.

Well, not just his ego.

"Thank you," John said with a weak voice, grabbing Sherlock's wrist, "but if you don’t stop with that voice of you, this will end very soon."

Following a whim, John took the massage oil as well: he hadn’t forgotten Sherlock's vocal reaction in the jacuzzi to his hands on his body; surely they were going to make a mess on the bed, but if not in a love hotel, where?

He opened the bottle and poured the oil directly onto Sherlock's body, who opened his eyes and complained, "John, that's not the way you... UH!"

Sherlock fell silent as John leaned over him and slipped back and forth on his body just like in his dream, only that this time it was real, there was Sherlock in his flesh and bones beneath him, and he was surrounding John’s back with long, sweaty arms and pressing his heels on his buttocks.

"Christ..." John muttered under his breath, savoring that wet and slippery contact with every cell of  his body.

Sherlock took the oil too, and spread it on John's back and shoulders, occasionally scratching slightly his skin, while he explored John’s ear with his tongue.

John put his hands between Sherlock's back and the mattress and reversed their positions with a thrust of his hips; surprised, Sherlock let out a little, undignified yelp, and then bit his lips, embarrassed, as John burst out laughing.

Then the former soldier pushed Sherlock under him again and grabbed his buttocks.

"Was it a demonstration of your physical prowess, Captain Watson?"

"Did it work?"

"Yes, I'm very impressed," Sherlock said, lifting his hips to rub his hard cock against John’s belly.

"Very good," John murmured, kissing the tip of his nose, and then smiled: he didn’t remember having ever felt so good with someone, having lingered so long in the foreplay, playing and having fun: they were sweaty, disheveled, smudged with sweat and massage oil, and nothing had ever seemed so right and natural to him.

When Sherlock lifted his hips, John's cock slipped past his testicles, the tip teasing his opening, and John felt him literally vibrate in his arms.

"Jo-John..."

"Ssh, in a moment."

He picked up the lube and prepared him, and this time Sherlock didn’t hold back, moaning  loudly every time John's fingers pushed inside him, and his voice was like a velvety caress on John's skin.

"What did I say about the voice?" he gasped on Sherlock’s neck, biting it gently.

"It’s your fault," Sherlock gasped, clawing the sheets, "you're so... AH! AAH! "

John's fingers folded, touching his prostate, and Sherlock jumped as if he had been struck by an electric shock.

It started to get too hot down there, so John lowered the sheet, allowing both of them to breathe. The light illuminated the erotic show of Sherlock, divested of any form of control over his body, shiny with oil and sweat, completely at John's mercy.

"I was wrong," John murmured, leaning over him to lick his neck.

" ‘bout what?"

"Before, in the car, I looked at you and I thought you were was cold, distant, untouchable."

Sherlock stroked John’s nape and then shook his head. "Not to you John, never to you."

"I know, now I know. You're warm, hot, and I need to feel you now."

He scissored his fingers inside him, and when Sherlock didn’t show any sign of discomfort, he brought his right knee over his shoulder and pushed in, slow but implacable, in a single, long, agonizing thrust that made both of them to hold their breath, until John's testicles touched his buttocks. John exhaled loudly, as if someone had punched him in the gut, while Sherlock's breath became syncopated and broken; John didn’t move, waiting for Sherlock to get used to his size, and masturbated him until he saw him relax on the mattress and his breath go back to a normal rhythm.

"Okay?"

Sherlock nodded frantically, then tried to express a full sentence, without success: "It's... you're so... John..."

John chuckled, proud to have made Sherlock Holmes speechless, slipped out almost completely and then sank back into his body with the same agonizing slow pace, without surrendering to his own instinct and growing desire, that was asking him to have more.

Sherlock groaned with frustration and impatience and fastened his legs around John’s back, pushing his hips abruptly against him; John interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s, pressing their hands on the mattress to curb his eagerness.

"You were curious to know how it was in my dream, and it was like that, slow,” John said, pushing back inside him “and deep."

"So, in the dream you were trying to kill me" Sherlock grumbled with a petulant voice.

John laughed and bent to kiss Sherlock on the middle of his chest, over his heart, then moved his lips to his right nipple, already rigid and hard as a pebble and sucked it greedily, and Sherlock's moans became so strong and deep that John prayed that the room was properly soundproofed.

Sherlock was shaking under him, and begging John to move harder, god, he was losing his mind. John speeded up the pace of his thrusts, and put a hand on Sherlock's erection; he wanted to drag that moment forever, as in the dream, but his body wanted more, wanted flesh and pleasure, and John abandoned all pretense of control, letting his instinct lead him.

Under his rough pumps, it didn’t take too long for Sherlock to reach the orgasm; he closed his eyes, sobbed and let himself go, and he was so beautiful, lost in his ecstasy, that John couldn’t help but stop for a moment to watch him, then he firmly grabbed his hips and fucked him; the heat pooled in his belly, hotter and hotter and finally it exploded in a glowing orgasm.

John probably blacked out for some seconds, because when he opened his eyes he was lying on his back, breathing hard.

"God…"

"Mh..." Sherlock agreed.

John sat up and breathed deeply, getting struck by the mixed smell of massage oil and sperm.

"Christ, we reek, we should have another bath."

Sherlock nodded, but he was lying with his eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face, so it was up to John to get up and prepare a hot bath, but before he poked Sherlock playfully on his side, made him jump and yelp again.

"I'll have my revenge for this," Sherlock warned him.

"I'm waiting."

"When I can move again."

But even when they were immersed in the hot water again, Sherlock didn’t move at all and was plastered on John, while the doctor was washing both of them with a sponge.

Sherlock reached out to the window, pulled the curtain and sighed with disappointment.

"What is it?" John asked, kissing his forehead.

"I was hoping it was snowing, so we would have an excuse to stay here for another day."

John’s face became pensive as he took the shampoo and washed Sherlock's hair.

"Do you know that journalist, the local police chief's brother?"

"Yes?"

"It seemed a very tenacious man to me: if tomorrow morning we leave for Furano, I'm sure he will track us down, and won’t leave us alone until he has his interview."

A malicious smile lighted up Sherlock's face.

"True."

"And we don’t want our face on the front page of newspapers."

"No, it would be immensely detrimental to the Work."

John nodded.

"Better stay here another day and keep a low profile."

"Very low," Sherlock murmured in his ear, before disappearing underwater.

**Author's Note:**

> I think that everyone knows what a love hotel is, anyway it's a short-stay hotel, common in Japan and in other Asian Countries, where basically people go to have sex.  
> As I never been in Japan, I did research just on the web, so my description of the hotel could be innacurate. I apologize for that.


End file.
